Paint Fumes
by BuryTheHatchet
Summary: I am too tired to come up with a good summary. Umm... Set after ToC, but I do not know when. Probably pre-season eight. Wait, definitely pre-season eight. That is all I can say really. Just a touch of redecorating. Nothing overly great.


**I am supposed to be working, but I do not actually understand what it is I am supposed to be doing, nor why I am supposed to be doing it.**

Paint Fumes

"I will be five minutes, maximum. Just, uh…make yourself comfortable." The door swung open as she spoke, letting her voice float out into the corridor, followed by receding footsteps as she disappeared back deeper into the apartment in order to continue readying for work. They had been called in early, and as he had driven her home from work the night before – due to the fact that she had been falling asleep at her desk and her driving was bad enough when she was alert – he had promised that he would drive her in in the morning.

"Right." Tony nodded, stepping across the threshold of her new apartment. Nobody had seen it. Nobody had been invited. He hesitated in the doorway of the empty room before shutting the door and ambling across to her sofa. He crossed one leg over the other and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as he looked around, taking in the dullness of the room.

He knew that all of her possessions had been blown up before they went to Israel, and he knew that she would not have had any time to accumulate new possessions in the few days between moving back to Tel Aviv and starting her journey towards certain death in the desert. But it seemed as though in the months that she had been back she had made no attempt to make her apartment more home-like – no attempt to act upon the permanency that she had been declaring. The walls were beige and the only sign of a personality was a book of American History on the counter table. Even the cushions on the couch were drab and lifeless.

He remembered her old apartment – before they were reassigned, before he wasted four months of his life on a boat, before Rivkin and before Somalia – remembered the movie nights, the nights of laughter and friendship, teetering on the edge of something more but never quite tumbling over into bed. He remembered her brightly coloured walls, the red carpet that did not stain when they got drunk and spilt a bottle of Merlot. He remembered the shelves of books and the slowly growing pile of DVDs. The battered upright that stood in the corner of her lounge, worn, loved, beaten and played, over and over. That was the piano she had re-taught him on, the one they had spent nights hitting wrong keys and fooling about around the right ones. That was the piano she had taken her anger out on, she had cried at and told stories at and let her hand brush against his at, her breath warm on his neck, making the hairs there prickle with excitement.

That piano was gone now. Burnt to cinders. She had made no move to replace it, and he could not help but feel slightly disappointed by that. It emphasised how temporary the apartment felt. He briefly wondered whether she had kept the waffle iron he had brought her as a joke, a belated welcome to America present, gifted a year after she arrived, but then he recalled the fate of the piano and presumed that the kitchenware had befallen the same destiny.

She walked through and he got the first proper look at her since he had entered her apartment. She was pristine, her hair immaculate and her forest green jumper going nicely with the cargo pants she wore. "Nice place." He commented, standing up. She simply gave a tight, forced smile and nodded slightly, opening the door and waiting for him to leave.

* * *

"Go on home, Ziva. You're not gonna get any more done today." Gibbs said softly as he stood beside her desk. Her eyes were heavy and tired, her shoulders slumped. She looked up from the document she was typing and rubbed her bleary eyes, focusing on the three empty desks. "They went home four hours ago. McGee seemed upset when you ignored his goodbye."

"Oh." She nodded slowly, wanting to ask how Tony had sounded but not wanting to raise Gibbs' eyebrows. He always seemed to be suspicious of them, particularly when she asked about him. Gibbs stood, seemingly waiting for her to stand up and collect her coat and bag. He walked with her to the elevator, matching her pace step for step, making it feel as if he were guarding her or ensuring that she did, in fact, go home and did not just stay the night at her desk. He nodded to her when they reached the parking structure, watching as she climbed into her car and drove off.

The drive was uneventful. Nobody cut her up, she hit a balance of red and green lights, zooming through both alike. She ignored the recognisable mustang parked in front of her parking space, ignored the dim light that glowed through her apartment window. She ignored the curious glance her landlord gave her as he took out a rubbish bag. The first thing she noticed that was out of the ordinary was the heavy smell of paint fumes that hit her as she started on the second flight of stairs. The walls of the corridor were the same white they had always been, the paint dry, and she knew that there were rules about painting the apartments. The closer she got to her door, the more powerful the smell got. She pulled her SIG out when she heard a clunk from inside her apartment and flung the door open, being confronted by a wall of red. Her furniture had been draped in white sheets and Tony stood in the centre of the room, a paint roller in his hand and coloured flecks of paint in his hair. He held his hands up and gave a sheepish grin. "Hi."

"What the _Hell_ are you doing?" Her SIG was still trained on him as she stared in bewilderment.

"The place needed brightening up." He shrugged.

"So you painted my lounge? I am not even allowed to nail photographs up, and you decide to paint the walls?! I am going to be kicked out of my apartment now for something I did not do!"

"Whoa, can we just…just lower the weapon. Thanks." He surveyed his crimson handiwork. "You won't get kicked out."

"I will. This is against the terms of my lease." She waved her arms at the walls. Admittedly, she liked the colour. Three of the walls were a bright crimson verging on scarlet. An emotional colour of anger and love, passion and blood. The last wall, the one with her front door, was a light teal colour.

"I smoothed it over with your landlord. I told him that I was your partner and that you've had a really tough year and that your place needed brightening up. He agreed to let me paint the walls, so long as the colours weren't garish. I don't classify red or blue as garish." He smiled and scratched his head. "I do think he misinterpreted the term partner, though."

"Tony…"

"I got some better cushions, too, for your couch. They're brightly coloured." His face was hopeful. "I've only got the lounge done so far because I didn't want to go into your bedroom without your permission, because…I just didn't think it was right." He shifted, shuffling his feet and suddenly finding himself feeling very uncomfortable. "If you don't like it I can get a different colour, but the guy in the hardware store reckoned that you would like the red colour when I told him about you and you used to have the vase thingy that was the teal sort of colour and I just thought-"

"Tony. Stop." She cautiously stepped over to him. "Why are you doing this?"

"I…I guess…I want you to have a home, not just an apartment. I figured, y'know, you keep talking about settling down, making yourself something permanent in life, and I think the first thing to do is come home to a place of your own. I mean, I know it's not really your own place, 'cause it is rented, but I decided that making it warmer, nicer to come home to, and I just, y'know…I can redo it if you don't like it, but I…" The tips of her fingers touched his lips, silencing him as she considered, looking around the room and contemplating the colours. "I-"

"Shh." She put pressure on his lips, not willing to withdraw her touch from his mouth. "You have a spare brush, yes?"

"Mhmm." He nodded.

"And you are needing some help?" Stunned, he merely stared at her as she retracted her fingers and took the roller from his hand, walking over to the wall and continuing where he left off. As a smile touched at the corners of his mouth, he joined her by the red wall with a brush.

"Sorry."

"What for?"

"Breaking in, telling your landlord we're engaged, painting your walls."

Her roller strokes halted and she turned to glare at him. "Engaged?"

"Hu, I didn't mention that?" Her hard glare solidified, almost tangible in its attempts to burrow into the side of his face. "I mean, he wasn't letting me in and I said we were partners and he seemed to take that the wrong way and then, uh, I kinda mentioned the engagement party, told him about how great you looked in a little black number and threatened him when I saw him begin to imagine it, then he let me in." He continued to paint, keeping his eyes focused on the red that was being lacquered onto the surface, thinking that the colour choice was wise, given that his blood would soon be joining the paint on the wall.

"You told my landlord, the old man that gossips with every single tenant in this building about every little thing about every other tenant, that I am engaged?"

"Something like that."

"To you?"

"Yeah."

"And you just think I am going to forget about that?"

"Well…I did get you new throw pillows for your sofa."

"Hmm." She huffed, turning back to the painting. He frowned, expecting an entirely different reaction. He had been expecting her to snap, to shoot him or slit his throat, maybe stick a knife in his gut or break his neck. But, alas, she went back to work, completely ignoring him. Completely. Not opening her mouth for the rest of the wall. She stepped back as he finished the top corner rubbing her eyes and glancing at her watch.

Tony, too, took a look at his watch and had to blink to check he was reading the time correctly. "Is it really 0200hrs?" He had been trying to coax her out of the shell of silence she had shrunken into since she had started it, and he had had no luck.

"Yes. I believe it is." She was feeling light-headed, the paint fumes mingling with tiredness to create a strange dizziness.

"I guess I should go."

"Yes. I will see you tomorrow."

"Today. I'll see you today. Tomorrow's already happened." He smiled. "And, uh, we can go out at lunch and choose some paint for the rest of the rooms."

"Tony, you do not have to do that."

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah I do. I also have to tell your landlord the truth. That we work together, and that is all."

Her hand hesitated as she reached up to the latch on the door. "Not all. We are friends, too, are we not?"

He smiled and she looked up at him, placing her hand on the side of his face and swirling her fingers in his short hair. Her other hand was on his forearm as she rose up on her tiptoes, brushing her lips against his cheek in her usual fashion. He closed his eyes, calming his breathing. It was just a simple kiss on the cheek, so why did his whole head fog up every time she did it? If it were Abby, he would not have had a problem. It was only ever Ziva's kisses that affected him. However, as soon as he felt her warm, soft pink lips on his, his eyes flashed open, staring at him in shock as she backed away from the chaste kiss that still burned, his skin tingling from the contact. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were fixed to her feet, a frown creasing her forehead as if she were trying to figure out what she had just done and why she had done it. He smiled, tilting her chin up with his index finger and looking down at her. "Goodnight, Ziva David." He pressed a kiss to her cheekbone and opened the door to her apartment, backing out.

 **Hmm, not certain that I liked this one. It has been sat around on my hard drive for a while and I wanted to shift it because it is complete, or as complete as I can get it.**

 **For my reference: 53** **rd** **NCIS fic.**


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